


shake it up, baby

by juliusschmidt



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Blow Jobs, Cooking, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fights, Grocery Shopping, M/M, Money
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 06:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1295191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliusschmidt/pseuds/juliusschmidt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry starts a new job. He and Louis adjust their dinner routine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shake it up, baby

**Author's Note:**

> Yesterday, Lauren was giving me shit for never reading or writing established relationship fic. This is the result of her harassment: a fic about an established relationship with minimal sexy bits and a conversation about money. I don't know why this happened. Sorry. 
> 
> Disclaimer: This story is not based on my personal grocery habits. I am an adult who can take care of herself, thank you very much.

There’s nothing for it. Louis’ got to take on the meal duties. With Harry’s new job forty minutes from their flat instead of ten, he just won’t have the time anymore.

Harry waits till late at night, just days before he starts his new training, to whisper the request against Louis’ throat in the dark of their bedroom.

He feels awful about asking. He knows how Louis hates the kitchen, how he says he always catches shit on fire, how he says he can’t so much as pick up a knife without slicing himself open, but a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. And, Harry thinks, _this man has got to pay the bills_.

The thing is, Harry _likes_ to cook and he’s reluctant to give it up. They’d agreed when they’d moved in together that they had _the best_ arrangement. Harry would handle the food and Louis would handle the washing up. And it’d worked perfectly for close to a year now.

Harry expects Louis to put up a fight at the change, to push Harry to figure out a way around what seems to be the only reasonable option: Louis taking over as chef. So he’s surprised when, voice thick and rumbly, probably partly from the way Harry’s hand is tracing circles on the inside of his upper thigh so very close to his balls, Louis says, “Of course, love. Obviously.”

Grateful, Harry slides his hand over so that it covers Louis’ dick. He lets it sit there, unmoving, feeling Louis grow and harden beneath him, and he thinks he might the luckiest boyfriend on the planet.

“Don’t be a tease, love,” Louis says, voice rougher still. “I’m making quite the sacrifice for you.”

~

On the second Wednesday of his new job, Harry works up the courage to say something to Louis. He sets his now empty take-out container down on the coffee table and rolls his shoulders. Louis’ lit a candle and set it atop his stack of trashy tabloids, and he’s got them drinking white wine from their nicest stemware, not the plastic cups that Harry always uses because they’re dishwasher safe. And the fried rice had made for half-way decent leftovers, true, but, “Louis, I’m not, like, rich, or anything, with this new job.”

The shrimp Louis’ about to pop in his mouth pauses midair. Harry focuses on the sauce that’s about to drip onto Louis’ lap and not on Louis’ face or on the roiling of his own stomach. He probably shouldn’t have said anything.

Louis says, “It’s alright. You may have a small bank roll, but you have got that big dick.”

Harry frowns, “I’m serious, Louis. I’m not making that much more than before, especially if you add in the extra train fare.” He uses his fork to pick at the rice still stuck to the bottom of the styrofoam container and continues to avoid Louis’ eyes.

“Okay,” Louis says slowly. “I’ve got it. No new shoes this weekend. My Toms’ll have to last for another season.” He sounds disappointed and for good reason. They’d planned Saturday’s shoe shopping excursion three weeks ago, as soon as Harry’d gotten the job offer.

And well, Louis’ shoes _are not the point_. Harry says, “No, we can definitely still finance you some new kicks. Like, it’s more the way that we’re living.”

Louis narrows his eyes, “Pestering our landlord about the leaks in the ceiling and fending off mice and roaches, while eagerly awaiting the day we can afford a car or a puppy?”

Harry tugs at his hair and frowns at his reflection in the blank tv screen. Louis is being purposely obtuse and it’s beginning to irritate Harry. Trying not to sound too petulant, because Harry’s whiny voice always makes Louis shouty, he replies, “I’m talking about the take-out.”

Louis chews his food thoughtfully. He’s hasn’t looked over at Harry yet, either. He says, “You’re right. This isn’t the best Chinese. Definitely not worth the price. I’ll try to find a better option.”

Harry can’t stop himself. “Louis.” It’s more of a moan, all things considered, but the next phrase definitely falls into the category of whining.  “You know that’s not what I mean.”

It has exactly the effect Harry predicted. Louis’ back stiffens and his tone is too hard and too loud when he replies. “No, Harry, I don’t. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“You promised about the meals, Louis,” Harry says, tone turning positively weepy. “You said you’d take care of it.”

Louis stands and Harry fights the urge to pull him back down to the couch. “I’ve had dinner for you every fucking night, have I not?” He bites out each word. 

“We can’t afford this much take-out,” Harry says, voice cracking and pitch skyrocketing.

Louis sits back down. He’s not yelling, but his face is pinched and frowny. “Frankly, Harry, I don’t what you want from me.”

Harry meets Louis’ eyes for the first time since he’d started the conversation. “I want you go grocery shopping. And then I want you to cook us proper meals.” He knows his lip is sticking out, and that’s probably not fair play, but, like, he wants Louis to know how sad he’s making him.

Louis holds his gaze and Harry knows he’s done well. He’s been very direct in his request. And isn’t that what Louis’ always asking from him?

Finally, Louis folds his arms across his chest. “I did go to the grocery.”

Harry’s hands fly back into his hair and he closes his eyes, fighting back tears. Like, he doesn’t understand what’s happening. Why is Louis being deliberately obtuse about this? “The only thing in the cupboard is Coco Pops.”

“Two boxes,” Louis adds, as though he’s just described a reasonably well stocked kitchen.

Harry says, “I don’t like chocolate in the morning. You _know_ that.” Harry keeps his eyes closed. He cannot look at Louis right now.

Softly, so softly Harry almost doesn’t hear, Louis whispers, “I didn’t know that.”

And that’s it for Harry. The tears flowing freely now, he shouts, “Then you weren’t fucking paying attention, you arse.”

He’s off the couch and headed for the bedroom, Louis trailing behind him. “Come on, Harry. Come back. We aren’t finished talking about this.”

Harry whirls. “Fuck off until you’re ready to fucking contribute.” It's not fair, but Harry's too angry to be fair.

“Harry, come here,” Louis’s pitched his voice soft and high, placating. "Why are you crying about this?"

_Fuck him_ , Harry thinks but does not say.

Just as Harry’s about to slam the door to their bedroom, he hears Louis shout, voice hard again, “I’ll buy the fucking groceries.”

“You fucking better,” Harry replies, equally loud before letting the door clatter behind him, as dramatically as he can manage.

~

Later, much, much later, long after Harry’s ventured briefly into the bathroom to brush his teeth, he feels Louis slide into bed next to him. Harry’d wondered if maybe Louis would sleep on the couch tonight. He certainly hadn’t been planning on dragging Louis into bed.

But now that they’re lying beside one another and Harry’s had time to brew and then to cool, he doesn’t feel nearly as upset as he had at dinner.

He says, “Sorry for exploding at you.” It comes out tired and petulant. Maybe Harry isn’t quite as calm as he’d thought.

Louis rolls onto his side and in the pale moonlight shining into the room from over their blinds, Harry watches Louis drag his gaze upward to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, too.”

When Harry doesn’t reply- because, frankly, he’d like to hear what Louis’ sorry for first- Louis continues, “I didn’t realize take-out cost that much more than groceries. And I really didn’t know about the Coco Pops. You used always eat a bowl after work, while you were cooking. I thought they were your favourite.”

“They are my favourite,” Harry admits. But he adds, “Just not in the morning.”

Louis’ eyes look clear and grey in the softly lit room. He’s pursing his lips like he hasn’t decided whether or not he’s done being angry. Harry winds their fingers together and says, “You’ll fetch us some food tomorrow?”

Louis nods.

Harry says, “No more take-away?”

“Well, sometimes, maybe? I don’t think I’ll be able to do a good curry,” Louis’ voice is low and gentle. The not quite playful insecurity makes something clench in Harry’s chest.

He squeezes Louis’ hand. “Okay, for curry. But not every day. Not even every other day.”

Louis kisses him and, against his lips, whispers decisively, “Every third day, then.”

~

When Harry arrives home from work the following evening, he bumps into Louis in the hallway outside their door. Louis’ cussing, surrounded by bags and fumbling through the pockets of his jacket, presumably searching for his key.

“Here,” Harry says, his own key already in hand.

Louis looks up with a startled smile. “Hey, babe,” he says, looking smug. “I found groceries.”

It’s an odd way to put it and Harry hopes he didn’t dumpster dive for them or something. Because Louis _would_ do some shit like that, after all that fuss last night. Harry almost says so, but then he remembers that he usually likes to assume the best of people, especially Louis, so he says, “Thank god. I’m starving.”

Dragging the bags inside, Louis says, “I have just the thing.”

~

Twenty minutes later, after Harry has showered and checked his twitter feed, he wanders into the kitchen. Louis has on an oven mitt and is talking excitedly to the microwave.

“Need any help?” Harry asks.

Louis whirls around and rolls his eyes at Harry. Harry stiffens, but then relaxes when Louis clarifies the look, saying, “Harry, I’m cooking, here. You’re _relaxing_.”

So Harry does relax, or rather, he tries to. He flips on the television and half listens to the evening news, half checks Facebook. In the other room, the microwave dings. He hears it creak open. Louis releases a string of expletives.

“Lou?” Harry calls out, curious.

“Fucking shit piece of shit,” Louis calls back. Harry assumes Louis’ not talking about him, but he can’t be totally sure, so he makes his way into the kitchen.

The microwave’s on again and Louis’ got his arms folded across his chest. He doesn’t look at Harry. All his attention is on the microwave. Harry looks around the kitchen, curious to see what Louis’ picked up at the store.

The bags still sit full on the counter and Harry peers inside. The first one contains four bottles of white wine and the second, a bag of oranges, a bundle of bananas, a tub of biscuits, and a box of granola. The third’s got frozen peas, butter, and the largest bag of rice cakes Harry has ever seen. 

“Is this it?” Harry inquires.

Louis turns around, eyes narrowed, “Of course it’s not it. What do you think I’m doing?”

Harry has no idea what Louis’ doing, but instead of pointing that out, he says, “What are we going to eat tomorrow, Louis?”

Louis huffs. “It’s not tomorrow, yet, is it? I don’t know why you’re even thinking about that.”

“You obviously weren’t,” Harry mutters, darkly. He knows the comment is uncalled for, but he’s a little sore about all this. The thing is, “Louis, I know you can do this. Remember the time you cooked for us, with the stuffed chicken wrapped in parma ham? That was quite good.”

“No, I don’t remember it,” Louis lies, pulling his work out of the microwave. It’s a pizza, probably a pizza that was once frozen. The cheese nearest the crust looks overcooked, congealed and stiff, while the flakes in the middle haven’t even melted down.

“You don’t put frozen pizza in the microwave, Louis,” Harry instructs, taking the hot platter out of Louis’ hands and dumping the pizza into the bin.  “It goes in the oven.”

Louis crosses his arms and leans back against the counter. “The package said the microwave would be faster.”

Harry doesn’t comment and instead tries to peer around Louis to the counter behind him. “Got another?” He asks.

Louis shakes his head. “No, and now that one is gone. Thank you, Harry, for tossing it without my permission.”

Harry lets his jaw drop. “You weren’t going to try to eat that?”

Louis’ jaw is set and he doesn’t reply.

Harry peers back into the bags on the counter, hoping to find something he’d missed on the first look-through. He doesn’t. He pulls out the frozen peas and the granola. “Peas and cereal, it is then.”

Louis cringes, his eyes plainly fixed on the Thai menu stuck to the fridge. “You can’t be serious. We’ll just go-“

“Nope,” Harry interrupts. “We’re eating what you bought.” He upends the peas into a pan with a hunk of butter and turns up the burner on the stove. “Thanks for shopping, Louis. What a good job you’ve done.”

~

They don’t fight that night, per se, not using words, but the air between them is cold. Louis never comes in to bed.

~

When Harry wakes up the next morning, having slept little, he wanders into the living area cautiously, partly because he doesn’t want to wake Louis and mostly because he doesn’t want to fight, not before work.

What he sees surprises him. Louis has books and papers spread out across the coffee table and a pen between his teeth. He’s currently staring at his computer screen, thoroughly engrossed in reading what, when Harry takes a closer look, appears to be a taco recipe.  

“Morning,” Harry says, voice rough with sleep.

Louis turns to him, blinking. With a tight smile, he says, “Morning, love. Mind making me a cuppa?” He holds out his mug, dregs from a previous cup still in the bottom. It’s Louis favourite mug, the one covered in tiny footballs.

Harry grabs it with one hand and runs the other through his hair. “What are you doing?”

Louis shoots him a look and, okay, Harry can take a pretty good guess at what he’s doing. The paper closest to Louis’ elbow has scrawled across the top of it: _grocery list_.

Raising his eyebrows, Louis says, “Tea, please? I want to finish this before I have to head into the shop.”

Harry beams at him and pauses for a moment before heading into he kitchen. He’d rather watch Louis squint at his laptop and scribble notes than make him tea. The sunlight’s casting Louis' hair in a golden halo, making him seem deceptively angelic. Harry loves him. “I love you,” he says.

Louis doesn’t look up, but he does reply, “I love you, too, and I will love you even more when you bring me my tea.”

~

Harry thinks about tacos all day. He tries not to get his hopes too high. Louis’d had a lot of recipes open in front of him.

He takes his time on his walk home from the train, stopping to pick Louis up his favourite type of chocolate bar. He also grabs a couple of Louis’ favourite celebrity rags. The purchase has everything to do with his love for Louis and Louis’ love for gossip and nothing to do with Harry’s own minor, fleeting, disinterested curiosity over rumors of a Brangelina split.

~

When Harry arrives home, the flat smells like garlic and onions, and he _hopes_ he was right about the tacos. In the kitchen, he finds a pile of chopped veggies, mostly peppers, and line of Mexican spices. The garlic and onions are in a fry pan that’s been taken off the burner. Louis is nowhere in sight.

In the dining area, Harry finds two glasses of wine and a lit candle on the wooden table. They only eat out here on _special_ occasions, holidays, birthdays and anniversaries. Apparently, Louis has decided to pull out the big, romantic guns.

Speaking of. “Louis? Where are you?” Harry calls. He knocks on the bathroom door, no answer. The flat’s not that large and it was unlocked when he’d come in, so when he opens the door to their bedroom, he’s not surprised to find Louis inside, but he is surprised to find him completely despondent.

Louis’ lying on his stomach, his face smashed into the pillows. He’s wearing sweats and his feet, which hang off the side of the bed, are sockless. When he hears the door open, he groans.

Harry sits beside him and rests a hand on the small of his back. Something’s gone wrong. Harry can tell from Louis’ state of socklessness. Louis hates cold feet almost as much as he hates cold tea.

He says, “Louis, dinner looks wonderful.”

Louis says something, but it’s too muffled by the pillows to make out exactly what words he’s trying to articulate.

Harry lies down, partly beside Louis, partly atop him. He says, “Fancy a cuddle a before we eat? Or a blow job?”

Louis lifts his head. His lips are turned down. “Stop ignoring the fucking problem, Harry.” Louis says. Each word comes out hard and separate.

Harry doesn’t know what Louis’ talking about, so he nuzzles him, conciliatory, “Smells good. I bought you a present. Want it before or after? I say after, but I know you’re impatient.”

Louis pushes away from him, “Did you hear me just now?”

Harry hadn’t, so he shakes his head and, in response, Louis rolls his eyes and grits his teeth. The eye rolling puts Harry immediately on the defensive. Whatever’s got Louis so riled up definitely isn’t Harry’s fault. 

Louis says, “We can’t eat. I’m a failure.”

Harry replies, with as much patience as he can muster, “But I saw the kitchen. You’ve clearly started.”

Louis sits up and shouts, “I’m making beef tacos, but I forgot to buy beef. BEEF.”

Harry tilts his head, trying to meet Louis’ eyes, but Louis’ gaze is fixed on his own sour expression reflected back in the mirror across from their bed.

Harry says, “Surely, we can impro-“

“And the tomatoes, Harry. I also forgot the fucking tomatoes. I am such a twat.” He throws himself backwards onto the bed again.

“I’ll fix it,” Harry tells him. “Did you buy for more than just today?”

Voice muffled by the arms he’s now crossed over his face, Louis replies, “I thought so, but apparently I didn’t buy even enough for today. Oh my god, I’m trash. Toss me out.”

Harry rises, feeling suddenly determined. Louis’d clearly tried. Harry’ll fix them them goddamn tacos. He’ll fix them veggie tacos, if he has to. Tomato-less, veggie tacos, even.

Once in the kitchen, he opens the fridge to look for any other meat Louis might’ve brought home. He pulls back in surprise. It’s filled. The crisper is stuffed with colourful peppers and artichokes and cucumbers. There’s juice and cheese and eggs and, in the meats drawer, right where it belongs, a package of raw chicken. Perfect. As he’s closing the door, he glances at what’s tucked inside, and “Jesus Christ, Louis.”

“What?” Louis says, tight and defensive. He’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms wrapped around himself. Harry’s glad to see that he’s now wearing socks. Things are looking up.

“What did you cuss at me for?” Louis voice sounds very small.

Harry regards him and, thinking of his socked feet, decides it's safe to be honest. “Why all the salad dressing?” 

Louis pushes back his fringe and smiles, a little, tiny, smug smile. “It was on sale ten for ten. So I bought ten.”

Harry pulls at his own hair and tries not to be frustrated. Even though there’s no way in hell they’ll be able to use all the dressing before it goes bad, it’s not really that much money wasted.

Out of curiosity, he opens the freezer. It’s filled too, a few frozen pizzas, some sweet corn and a bag of the berry mix Harry likes to use in shakes. Also, there’s three different kinds of ice cream.

“Louis?” Harry can’t even bring himself ask the question, but Louis’ pressing himself up behind Harry now and Harry assumes he can guess the reason for Harry’s confusion.

“I’ll put the pizzas in the oven next time,” Louis promises, as he tucks his chin over Harry’s shoulder.

“Why all the ice cream? Were they on sale as well?” Harry hopes so. Ice cream is not cheap.

“No,” Louis tells him. “I couldn’t choose which flavor. So I bought all three.”

Harry sighs. He shuts the freezer door and turns to face Louis.

Louis grips Harry’s biceps, a little line of worry appearing on his forehead right between his eyebrows. “Are you mad?” he asks.

Harry smiles and says, “No.” But it’s not entirely true because he doesn’t understand what happened. “Louis, you made a list. How do bring this mix of goods back when you have a list?”

Louis' fingers tighten on Harry’s arms and he looks down. “I may have forgotten it. At home.”

Harry lets his hands fall to Louis’ waist and noses at his ear. He whispers, “Tomorrow, we’re going back. With that list. And I’m going to supervise.”

Louis bites Harry’s shoulder, hard, and then says, “Fuck you, _I’m_ going to supervise.”

~

Harry writes out two copies of the list, so that they can each carry one. It’s a short list, because Louis’d picked up most everything the day before.

When they arrive at the grocery, Louis insists on carrying the basket, saying that _he_ was the one who was learning, so _he_ was the one who needed to be in control. Harry thought it seemed perfectly reasonable for them each to carry their own basket, but an eyebrow raise from Louis when he’d reached to grab for one had told him that this was not the case.

While Louis’ inspecting tomatoes, Harry wanders over to the apricot display. The fruit looks surprisingly fresh. Harry throws a few in a produce bag and returns to Louis.

“Put them back. They’re not on the list,” Louis says, rolling a tomato in his palm.

Harry pouts. “Dried apricots _are_ on the list, though.”

Louis chooses three tomatoes and places them in the basket. “Then we’ll get _dried_ apricots.”

Harry kicks his shin. “That’s stupid. I only put dried apricots on the list because fresh apricots aren’t in season and I didn’t expect to find any decent ones here.”

Louis raises his eyebrows. “So we’re going to bend the rules for you but not for me. You can buy fresh apricots instead of dried, but I can’t buy three tubs of ice cream instead of one. Really doesn’t seem fair.”

Harry puts the apricots in the basket, but Louis walks over to apricot display, and takes them back out. “I’m trying to learn,” he tells Harry. “I’m not advanced enough for switch outs.”

Louis changes his tune when they hit the bread aisle. “I’d much rather pita,” he tells Harry as he pulls a bag of it off the shelf. “Makes better sandwiches than regular bread.”

Harry attempts to tug it from his hand. “You’re not ready to make that kind of choice,” Harry informs him. “As your instructor in all things grocery, I say, you’re stuck with bread. That’s what we’ve written down.”

Louis rolls his eyes and Harry tries to tug the whole basket from him, instead. “Maybe I should take over,” he says. Louis’ grip on the basket remains firm and eventually Harry relents.

“Pita and bread are the same thing,” Louis says.

So are fresh and dried apricots, Harry does not say. Instead, he asks Louis, “If we got all the way home with the pita, not the bread, don’t you think you’d be disappointed when there’s no toast for breakfast?”

Louis frowns.

Harry says, “You were definitely right. Switch outs are far too advanced for you.”

Louis sets his jaw. “I can do this,” he says. “Let me do this on my own.”

The determination in his eyes matches a much more daunting task, perhaps fording a river or facing down a hungry tiger. Harry likes it, so he nods. “Okay, I’ll be by the clerks.”

Louis' frown deepens. “Don’t be too chatty. That blonde likes you. She asked after you the other day.”

Harry waggles his eyebrows. “You’ll just have to move quickly, I guess,” he says, though he has no intention of chatting to anyone. He’d seen an article about Leonardo DiCaprio’s latest addiction, gambling, advertised on the front of the Daily Star and he’s a little curious.

When Louis arrives at the front of the shop a few minutes later, he shoos Harry back.

“I need to check,” Harry tells him, attempting to peer into the basket.

“You should trust me,” Louis replies. Harry can’t exactly argue back- he _should_ trust Louis- so he shrugs and moves out of the way.

~

When they re-enter the flat, each with a bag, Harry falls back into instructor mode. Setting his load on the counter, he says, “First thing, we need to unpack the freezer goods before they thaw.”

Louis, apparently, has another idea. He begins pressing wet, toothy kisses to the back of Harry’s neck.

Harry shivers and turns toward him. He leans in for a quick kiss. “Lou,” he says, pressing a finger to Louis’ lips. “After. We don’t have time. We have to put the cold food away.”

“Oh, I bet we do have time. I bet this’ll be over quite quickly,” Louis says and drops to his knees. His fingers undo Harry’s belt and buttons with a practiced ease.

Harry’s not quite hard yet, but that changes fast, as Louis sucks most of him down right away. The hot, wet suction of his mouth totally enveloping Harry puts him off balance and he clutches at the counter.

Louis’ very good at sucking dick in general (or so Harry had heard, before) and extremely good, nigh on perfect, at sucking Harry’s dick in particular. The rhythm he builds and the pressure he uses, especially the push of tongue, make Harry’s spine tingle and his balls throb.

And he's determined right now, bobbing fast, pulling almost too hard and sliding a hand around press up behind Harry's sack. Harry hears himself whine, and he wonders whether Louis'd planned this, whether he'd spent the walk back from the store thinking about Harry's dick in his mouth. Harry hopes so. 

Sometimes, Harry likes to fuck Louis’ mouth, thrust in and out on his own, controlling the pace so it gets him off. But today he’s trying to prove a point, about coming slowly. Or something. He can’t quite remember.

Louis wins, though, Harry thinks, because he isn't at it more than three or four minutes before Harry’s spurting out into Louis’ mouth, fingers wrapped tightly enough around the edge of the counter that they'll be marks in his palms. Louis pulls back, then, reaching a hand up to hold Harry’s pulsing dick through the aftershocks, and the tail end of Harry’s orgasm leaves a shiny white trail on his face.

Voice rough and breathy, Harry says, “You want me to…?”

Louis shakes his head and wipes at Harry’s come, splattered on his cheek. He stands and goes to the sink to wet a paper towel.  "I was a shit boyfriend this week," Louis says and even though he doesn't tack on a 'sorry,' Harry hears it. 

"It's fine," Harry says, tucking himself back into his pants and humming a little. He’s so lucky to have Louis. He opens the first bag of groceries and finds, on top, his fresh apricots. _So lucky._

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: [juliusschmidt](http://juliusschmidt.tumblr.com)


End file.
